Fathers and Sons
by cazaril
Summary: Rinko has a study session to attend, leaving a toddler Ryoma in Nanjiro's dubious care. FatherSon humourous fluff with a touch of Nanji introspection for seasoning! Gen.


Title: Father and Son

Author: Katharos8/Cazaril

Fandom: Prince of Tennis

Genre: gen, humour

Rating: G

Disclaimer: Unfortunately in no way mine.

Beta: huge thanks to infinitvezero!

Nanjiroh held his son in his arms and watched with no small measure of glee as the toddler's expression grew increasingly more disgruntled. Perhaps that had something to do with the fingers Nanjiroh was waggling tauntingly in front of his face, just out of reach of his son's chubby hands. This occupation was infinitely more entertaining than listening to his wife lecture. Rinko's long stream of instructions was thus passing in one of Nanjiroh's ears and straight out the other.

"I've left baby food ready in the fridge; all you need to do is heat it up. The instructions are taped to the side of the jar."

"Yes dear,"

"Ryoma's bedtime is no later than seven o'clock, you understand? And he's to be actually _in _his bed this time."

"Yes dear."

"The list of emergency numbers is on the wall above the phone, and I've added Katie's phone number. I really need this study session – I'm in danger of falling behind, so Katie's number is also an emergency number. Please remember that Ryoma stealing your malteasers does not count as an emergency."

"Yes dear."

"Nanjiroh."

Startled by the suddenly commanding tone, Nanjiroh glanced up, waggling fingers stilling over Ryoma's face.

Rinko gave him a sweet smile. "If I find that you let Ryoma see your filthy magazines, we'll be having a bonfire a week early."

Nanjiroh blanched. "Yes dear," he said meekly.

Rinko granted him an approving smile and dropped a quick kiss on his cheek. An armful of baby Ryoma prevented Nanjiroh from pulling her closer for something more satisfying.

"Be good," Rinko told them as she slung her bag over her shoulder and opened the door. "That means you, Nanjiroh."

"Oy," Nanjiroh leered. "When am I not good?"

"Frequently," she said dryly. "I'm not a lawyer yet – just don't do anything that'll put you in court, alright?"

The door closed behind her.

Nanjiroh looked at Ryoma. Ryoma looked at Nanjiroh. Nanjiroh smirked. "Waddaya say, shounen?" he suggested, "Shall we throw a party? Booze and broads? Maybe some miniature versions for you?"

Ryoma gave him a disinterested look, reached up, took hold of a lock of his hair, and yanked.

"Yow!" Nanjiroh screeched. "Owowowowow…" Gingery, he eased his large hand around Ryoma's tiny fist, trying to pry the little fingers loose without inflicting any more pain on his poor scalp than it was already suffering. But Ryoma had a tight hold and despite Nanjiroh's best efforts he wasn't letting go.

Nanjiroh smirked proudly through the pain. "Heh. You've got a grip on you there, shounen. They won't knock your racket out of your hand so easily!"

Ryoma just looked at him, unconcerned with future victories, and yanked again.

Nanjiroh whimpered. A short painful tug-of-war later, and Nanjiroh emerged victorious, although not without losses. Six long, black hairs remained clutched in Ryoma's tiny fist, casualties of war.

"And what will you do with your winnings, Samurai Junior?" Nanjiroh asked in his best 'Idiot Pompous Reporter' voice.

Ryoma opened his fist; father and son watched as the hairs fell gently to the floor. Ryoma glanced away immediately, an expression uncannily like bored disinterest on his face.

Nanjiroh smirked. "Heh. You've already got the attitude down, ey, shounen?" He winked at him. "'Course, you come by it naturally, don't you?" From the blank look he was being given, Ryoma was unimpressed by this pedigree.

Nanjiroh sniffed.

Ryoma gave him a look and reached up again. Nanjiroh jerked his head back just in time. "Heh! Mada mada dane," he taunted. By the way Ryoma's eyes were focused on the long hair however, he was undeterred by this.

"Keep this up and I'll have to cut my hair," Nanjiroh grumbled. "My hair's part of my image, you know. I can't just go lopping it off. The girls go for it. Samurai Nanji from the land of the Sakura's!"

He paused and fell silent, gazing down at his son, his eyes distant.

Ryoma stared back up at him, his small brow furrowing at the strange quiet.

Nanjiroh shook himself free of wherever his mind had been wandering and sighed. "C'mon shounen," he said. "Let's go see what your mum's left in the fridge. I warn you though; I'm not going to eat baby food this time – that stuff is disgusting." Ryoma gave him a look that was definitely smug no matter what Rinko said about child development. His son was obviously a prodigy. "It _was_ pretty sneaky of you," Nanjiroh admitted. He grinned and waggled a finger at Ryoma's face. "But don't you go thinking your dad will be taken in by the same trick twice!"

Nanjiroh surveyed the kitchen's pristine appliances. A ghostly image of the war zone it had appeared after the last time he had attempted to feed Ryoma stole quietly into his mind, followed swiftly by the memory of Rinko's subsequent scolding.

Nanjiroh winced. "Newspapers," he said decidedly. "That's the first thing." He looked down at Ryoma. Ryoma looked up at him. "Ah," he said uneasily, "better find somewhere 'enclosed' to put you first, eh?" He rubbed at his head in painful memory. "I don't know what Rinko was screaming about," he grumped. "You were perfectly fine in the corner of that court, weren't you?"

Ryoma made a noise that Nanjiroh chose to interpret as agreement.

Nanjiroh scanned the kitchen thoughtfully. "Where," he murmured, "where, where, where, oh wheeeeeeeeeeere—ah!" He grinned as his eyes lit upon the sink. "Perfect!"

The small jars were a lonely cluster on the top shelf of the fridge. Nanjiroh pulled one of them out at random and scanned the sheet of notepaper cello-taped to it. "Cheh," he muttered. "Just have to shove it in the microwave. How stupid does she think I am?" The child in the sink declined to comment.

While the food heated, Nanjiroh dug out the pile of month old newspapers (which he was going to take to recycle soon, really) and spread them liberally across the table, floor, chairs and cupboards. At last he stood back and gazed upon the sea of newsprint with great satisfaction.

"Perfect," he announced just as the microwave dinged. Nanjiroh grinned as he went to retrieve the food. "One of a tennis player's most essential abilities is a superb sense of timing, combined with a keen awareness of his surroundings," he informed Ryoma and reached in to the microwave.

A couple of minutes later, his hand was a block of ice and Ryoma was very wet. Nanjiroh sighed wearily as he turned the cold tap off. "…We really don't need to tell your mother about this, do we?" he muttered.

Ryoma looked at him with an expression that could be read as 'bribe me with food and we'll see.'

Nanjiroh grinned. "We have an agreement then!" he declared.

This time, he used the oven gloves to get the jar out of the microwave.

Nanjiroh sat himself down at the newspaper covered table, Ryoma on his knee and spoon at the ready.

"Here comes the Twist-u Serve-u," Nanjiroh cooed. "Whoooosh, spiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiin, smack!"

The spoonful slid neatly into Ryoma's mouth.

Ryoma immediately spat it back out. It splattered on the newspaper. Nanjiroh grinned proudly. "Aren't I a clever daddy, huh? No mess to wipe up at all" He looked down at his son. "You didn't like that one much, did you?" He glanced at the label on the jar and raised an eyebrow. "Don't blame you," he muttered. "What's that woman thinking? Well," he said decidedly, standing up, "you can't eat _that_."

Nanjiroh plonked Ryoma in the sink again, dumping the jar into the bin as he went to fetch another.

This one was heated without the burns.

Nanjiroh retrieved Ryoma from the sink and settled back down at the table. "Turkey and rice this time," he said with considerable satisfaction. "There can be no objections to that! It's almost real food." He scooped up a spoonful from the jar and paused, looking at Ryoma thoughtfully.

Nanjiroh grinned. "Let's go for a drop shot this time, eh, shounen?"

The newspaper went neatly into the bin and there was no cleaning up to do at all. So it didn't really count as a mess, did it? And maybe the table did now sport a pattern of mirror imaged newsprint, but surely that would fade quickly.

Nanjiroh took a quick glance at the clock as he settled down on the sofa, piling his magazines on the floor besides him. "Seven o'clock all ready?" he muttered. He glanced down at Ryoma. "I don't tell her you stayed up late, and you don't tell her about my magazines, deal?" Ryoma gave him a look eloquently conveying his lack of faith in that plan succeeding. Nanjiroh grimaced. "No wonder you're still not talking much," he muttered. "You don't need to." He settled back into the sofa. Ryoma curled up on top of him, a small, warm weight against his stomach, tiny head resting against his chest.

Nanjiroh looked down at the small face gazing intently up at him and felt a smile that wasn't dopey no matter what Rinko said spread across. "Hey," he said softly, and reached out and took one tiny hand in his. He lifted it up, examining it closely. "Good hands you got there." Ryoma blinked at him. Nanjiroh winced. "Yeah, yeah," he grumbled. "'Suppose you proved that earlier."

He released the small hand and settled his hand against Ryoma's back as the young child curled more comfortably on top of him.

Nanjiroh watched him, his eyes going soft, although he'd deny that loudly to anyone who suggested it.

"I can't wait to play you, Ryoma," he said quietly. "You're going to be one of the greats, you know." He grinned. "Heh; you'll be the greatest. My son can't settle for anything less."

He looked down at his son and mentally imposed the image of his racket over him. It was only slightly smaller than Ryoma himself. Nanjiroh's lip twitched.

"It's going to be a while though, isn't it?" He ran his fingers gently through Ryoma's permanently tousled hair. Rinko had suggested rather hopelessly that he might grow out of it. "Even if I have started you on some basic stuff already." He sniffed. "And I'm not just being a proud dad, no matter what Rinko says; I know good eyes when I see them."

He paused. "But that's not going to be enough, is it?" he asked quietly. "Even my son can't catch up to me in five years. And that's about as much time as a pro has at the top of his game before everything starts catching up with him." Nanjiroh fell silent for a long moment. "Almost makes you wonder what the point is in making pro, if you only get five years." He looked down at his son. "I want to be able to play you as I am now. I want you to play Samurai Nanji. Not an old has-been.

"I've already played everyone I care about playing." He made a distasteful face. "And that's all the pro world is good for, really." He looked down at Ryoma who was beginning to drift off into sleep. "I want to play you. And I want you to play me. Me. Not a broken down ex-pro.

"You won't be worth facing until you're what? Fifteen? Twenty? If I stay a pro, that's at least ten years longer than I've got in my prime."

Nanjiroh brushed his fingers gently through Ryoma's tousled hair; his sleeping son barely stirred.

"Even if I'm not pro, I won't stay the best forever. You'll have to catch up to me quick." Ryoma made a snuffling noise in his sleep. Nanjiroh smiled.

"I want to play you, Ryoma," he said softly. "I want you to play the best."

Nanjiroh lay there for a while, just watching his son breath.

The house was dark and quiet when Katie dropped her off. Rinko breathed a sigh of relief and thanked any deities in the vicinity for the lack of fire engines and ambulances cluttering up the front lawn. Once inside, she dumped her book-heavy bag in the hall, closing the front door quietly behind her. The only light in the house was a soft glow from the living room; she walked over to the door way and peered in.

The light was coming from the lamp besides the sofa's armrest, illuminating the scene. Nanjiroh lay sprawled back against the corner of the sofa, head thrown back, snores issuing from his stretched throat. Ryoma lay curled peacefully asleep on his chest, his little breathy sighs a counterpart to his father's snores.

Her face softened at the scene, and she smiled.

Then her gaze fell to the magazine opened across his lap. Her eyes narrowed.

"NANJIROH!"

Everyone on the street agreed that the Echizens had a very fine bonfire, even if it was a bit early for Bonfire Night. That Nanjiroh was sentenced to nothing racier than the swimsuit issue until Ryoma was twenty-one was a private matter within the family.

A few months later, the tennis world was shocked by the retirement of one of its brightest stars, the Samurai Nanjiroh. Speculation ran rife as to his reasons, but Nanjiroh never said and no one ever guessed

A decade later, a reporter named Inoue would come the closest, but even he would fail to understand.

Shounen: What Nanjiroh's always calling Ryoma, aka 'boy.'


End file.
